Conformity
by chackers
Summary: Watson was a respectable member of society. He knew that certain emotions were best left unsaid. Holmes/Watson. Slashy.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Conformity

**Author: **Chackers

**Pairings:** Holmes/Watson

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sherlock Holmes.

**Author's Note:** As usual, it all started by a prompt in the kink meme. It asked for homophobia and period appropriate angst. It started off as a tiny, baby fic of about 20 lines… I should never have fed it.

~**~

Chapter One

Sherlock Holmes flipped through _Police News: Law Courts and Weekly Record_ with impatience and growing irritation. It was apparent to Watson that his friend was utterly bored with the mundane everyday life. There had been a lack of cases for the great detective.

His eyes were bloodshot and dull and he seemed thinner than usual, Watson could see the needle on the wooden mantle, which Holmes probably just used to inject himself full of cocaine. Watson felt a pang of anxiety for his friend.

"I need intellectual stimulation, Watson. Not this sensationalized drivel our esteemed press has been churning out day after day." He threw the paper down.

Watson glanced at the cover illustration and there it was, in some fancy font – _Closing Scene at the Old Bailey: Trial of Oscar Wilde_. This subject had been driving London wild for a week now, everyone seems caught up by the drama of it. There was something decidedly ugly about the speculative crowds' willingness and sinister desire to see a figure of literary greatness fall to ruins, their delight in exposing his secrets for all to see.

Holmes took notice of Watson's gaze. "England does not tolerate human nature," he remarked lightly, sounding detached and unemotional.

"Don't be preposterous," Watson proclaimed, voice too loud in his own ears. "Such behavior would ruin the very fabric of our society," he found himself avoiding his friend's penetrative and analytical gaze, which unnerved him somewhat.

Holmes' lips pursed slightly. "Why?"

He looked at his friend, what a ridiculous question to ask. "Because… Because people, generally, believe in the sacred text of the Bible… and well, the Holy Trinity."

"You are absolutely right, my good doctor." Holmes remarked tightly.

Watson looked relieved at the statement; he did not want to explain further. The discussion thankfully ended there.

It was on these rare occasions that he differed with Holmes. Because Watson was a God-fearing gentleman, who always went to church on Sundays and kissed Mary chastely on the cheek every time they meet. He was quitting his vices and stopped cheering his friend in the boxing ring, because it might be _improper_. He absolutely did not fantasize that Holmes might, in the euphoria of winning a match, grab his hair and kiss him roughly. He did not think of feeling the scratch of stubble on his cheeks, the rock-hard muscles against his chest, smelling the sweaty and musky smell all over him -- he absolutely did not.

"Watson…" his friend was looking at him with a gaze he could not quite decipher.

"We are getting married tomorrow," Watson said, slightly flustered. He puts the announcement hastily between Holmes and him like a wall. Even when it was being said, he still felt a vague sense of terror. It drove home the fact that he was entering domesticity, that there would probably be no more wild adventures with Holmes, because Mary might actually want to settle down and raise children, like normal people do.

"That's great. I do hope you are giving her that ring, she deserves nothing less." Holmes smiled.

Watson knows that it was the best he could hope for, with his friend's approval. Although he had, somehow, harbored a strange and deeply irrational hope that Holmes might still be jealous over the proceedings, but apparently it is alright now because he had Irene –

He clenched his jaw and halted the train of thought abruptly. "Mary would be expecting me soon," he stood up mechanically, regardless that it was a blatantly obvious lie. The atmosphere was making him uncomfortable; he attributes it to the smoke from the pipe, or maybe the London smog.

"But you just arrived!" Holmes protested, completely bewildered by his friend's irrational behavior.

"Oh would you look at the time," he fumbled for his pocket watch and exclaimed, it sounded false and contrived, "I really must be going." Watson rushed out, almost tripping over Toby.

He could not wait to get back to Mary, there was something calming about her embrace, which promised a safe refuge in conformity. I love her, Watson thought to himself, and I am going to marry her.

~**~

**Author's Note:** I'm addicted to the Sherlock Holmes fandom XD. This started out as a one-shot response, but I think I'll develop it further. I 3 VICTORIAN ANGST. Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the reviews. **NeverFree**, thank you for your constructive criticisms, I welcome them. As to why they are not yet having an affair, in the Victorian era, homosexuality was a capital offence. And Watson knows this. But never fear, NeverFree, for it will become more overt. ;) Anyway, I do strive for historical accuracy, feel free to point out anachronisms and other errors.

~**~**~

Chapter Two

He felt exhausted. His lips were chapped from dehydration; he opened his mouth in an attempt to capture droplets of rain as it drizzled. His vision was tinted with a thin film of red, there was blood in his eye from where a member of the crowd punched him and called him a "sodomite".

There was a ring of curious spectators, muttering and chattering away as they would watch a zoo exhibition. A half-empty bottle sailed through the air in an arc, spilling its contents all over the wooden scaffold. He dodged just in time to avoid it smashing into smithereens upon colliding with his skull. There were chains around his wrists like any other criminal he had apprehended, _the irony_.

He could see Mary in the crowd looking heavily distraught. Her face streaked with tears and blonde hair in disarray. It broke his heart. He wanted to tuck the flyaway strands of hair behind her ear and kiss the tears away. To remind her that he loved her, despite everything he had done or thought of doing. Not that it would be of any use at this point of time.

Holmes was in the midst of the crowd, his countenance as cold and detached as ever. Watson felt as if his heart had been wrenched from his chest cavity by those clinical, long-fingered hands and trampled beneath leather boots. He was enveloped in darkness as his head was covered unceremoniously with an opaque sack, the noose tightened around his neck.

John Watson woke up choking and spluttering, clawing madly at the collar of his sweat-soaked nightshirt. His heart was thumping at a furious rate which was surely detrimental to his health. He gets up, shuffles to the table and poured himself a small cup of left over Ceylon tea, it was cold and faintly bitter, having lost its aroma.

He sat down and drank to what was no doubt a sleepless night.

~**~**~

He got out of bed hastily after a night's worth of tossing and turning.

"John, darling, you look terrible," Mary fussed, beautiful in her dress embroidered with ivory lace, "have you been on one of your adventures again?"

"Just nerves." He kissed the back of her gloved hand and smiled reassuringly, "Everything's according to plan?"

"Do not attempt to change the topic. Have you been using the razor I gave you?" Mary narrowed her eyes, Watson rubbed his chin absently, it felt like sandpaper. "Are you growing a beard?"

"You don't suppose it makes me look distinguished and debonair?" He winked at her.

"Haggard would be a more appropriate word," she teased, "now go shave or I shall not kiss you during the ceremony."

Mary went back to moving tables and chairs into the garden, which was decorated with fragrant orange blossoms for the occasion.

Having shaved and worn the frock coat which was stiff from starch, Watson watched the primly dressed ladies and gentlemen walking hand in hand into their garden, now used for reception. They were mostly Mary's friends. He looked around and told himself that it was perfectly alright if Holmes had not been able to make it.

Watson stopped himself from making a mental list of excuses for his friend. He looked at the ring which Holmes had given to him in an act of extravagence, it was beautiful, each facet perfectly cut and polished.

"Waiting for me?" He looked up to see Holmes, impeccably dressed and looking rather out of his element among the crowd.

"What happened to you?" he asked, there was an ill-concealed gash across Holmes cheek which was sluggishly leaking blood onto his pristine white collar.

"Boxing," he wiped it away with a hankerchief already splotched with shades of red and brown, "it felt good to be pounded into the ground occasionally, now that I am deprived of interesting new cases."

"Pity, all that wasted energy."

"No matter, as soon as one comes along, I shall inform you immediately." Holmes remarked lightly.

"The thing is, Mary and I plan to open a consultation centre and it will be rather busy in the first few--" Watson know that she had arranged it all out and was very invested in it. She had even planned the university funds of their future son. "And... well, she thinks it is far too dangerous--"

"I understand. You have your obligations."

Watson did not know what to say. He was thankful when the clergyman arrived and the ceremony was about to begin.

"Do stick around," he nodded to him and walked off.

~**~**~

As they walked down the path, handfulls of rice were thrown. Mary laughed as she attempted to get rid of the grains which had slipped into her wedding dress. Her face was alight with happiness. He embeds the image into his mind, something he could hold on to in times of distress. A habit he had acquired in the army.

It was a simple and practical event, nothing lavish except for the large jewel adorning Mary's hand. The crowd had offered their congratulations and were leaving the premises. Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

He felt a sudden wave of nausea as anxiety gripped him. What if he had left him for good? What if he had found someone else to replace him? What if he gets himself into trouble? He banished the train of thought from his mind, it was too late now.

~**~**~

**Author's Note: **Hope you liked it. Next chapter will be in Holmes POV, I promise. Oh and, please review. It fuels my... keyboard.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: A big thank you to all my readers. I'm loving the reviews. Glad to see that there are so many Oscar Wilde fans out there :) . This chapter features Holmes POV(although I'm shit at it).

~**~**~

Chapter Three

Holmes was a formidable presence in the boxing ring, whipcord thin and sinewy grace. He had won three matches in a row, his supporters were looking more and more gleeful as they collected their considerable winnings.

Holmes leaned against a wooden table. He felt spent but oddly contented. As if in a fit of destruction he had managed to drive out the demons residing within. Weeks worth of restlessness and ennui along with general anger with the present situation. He was not about to let them cloud his mind and obstruct his ability for rational thought and sound judgment.

He made his way back to 221b Baker Street, which was, he reminded himself, very much empty. Mrs. Hudson had gone out for the afternoon. No more restrictions on cocaine or alcohol, he thought savagely, he could drink himself into a stupor and no one would bother to stop him.

~**~**~

He flipped through one of the manuscripts Watson left lying around the house. His friend had given up attempting to organize any of their papers in neat files, he knows that Holmes would eventually strewn it haphazardly all over the floor. Although Holmes had always remembered the exact location of every single item, like Watson's manuscripts (on the floor), his own favourite belt (beside the couch), Watson's brown trench coat which he had forgotten to pack (on the back of his favourite seat).

He was always a man of logic and patterns. There was an order in which their existence revolves around, a system that was currently thrown into disarray. It left him reeling. This disturbed Holmes.

He remembered his friend's not at all subtle rejection during his wedding. He had left then, in a fit of anger. It was difficult to feel happy for Watson when the marriage deprived him of his right-hand man, it felt as if he were rendered handicapped.

Mis landlady finally came back from her nephew's house, her footsteps resounded loudly in the now empty apartment.

"Back so early, Mr. Holmes?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "you do usually stay out late." And drag yourself home bruised and reeking of alcohol, she added mentally. Now that Mr. Watson was gone there was no one to control the many self-destructive tendencies of the detective.

Holmes reached into his jacket and fished out a watch that was definately not his. "Look at this watch, Mrs. Hudson, what inferences may you draw from its physical appearance?"

She took it and flipped it in her hand. It seemed to be made of gold, although it did not seem to be functioning. The hands on the watch were stationary. She felt slightly foolish, she had never observed watches in detail before.

Mrs. Hudson shrugged indifferently, "that the owner is rich?"

Holmes took it over and with a pin, scratched the side of the watch, revealing silvery metallic sheen beneath the layer of gold.

"Not quite. It seems that the watch is gold-plated, which means that the former owner wanted to create an impression of wealth. Also, the watch is clearly not functional, upon further examination, there a droplets of water in the crevices, which indicates that he had, at one point of time --" Holmes reasoned to her, despite the obvious fact that she had little interest in his reasoning.

"Devoid of entertainment, aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson remarked, "You have resorted to buying second-hand items from pawn shops just to exercise your methods of deduction."

"Have I mentioned that you would make an excellent detective?"

"Mr. Holmes, you have been a tenant for a terribly long period of time and I know, quite unfortunately, all your little eccentricities." She quipped shrewdly. "This is because of Mr. Watson's departure, isn't it? You never ask my opinions on these matters."

Holmes knows that it was no use protesting otherwise.

"You need a woman in your life," she said, "Look at your friend, happily married and enjoying a life of comfort and stability--"

"Mrs. Hudson, I am very flattered," he smirked at her.

"Psh," she flushed an alarming shade of red.

There was a knock on the door.

He watched his landlady scuttle off, duster in hand. He hoped that it would discourage her matchmaking tendecies. He certainly did not need another Vivienne or Sarah, who burst into tears after Holmes politely but firmly told her that he needed to work and could not possibly entertain her by conversing about the latest fabrics from the Orient.

"Your guest, Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson told him, a knowing smile on her face.

Irene Adler stepped into the room, resplendent in a red satin gown. Her face was enshrouded in a veil, but Holmes could recognise the mischievious glint in her eyes anywhere. She was standing there, elegant as always, looking unlike a convict who had, for some reason, escaped or managed to shorten the sentece given to them. He knew that a woman such as Irene Adler would not stand to stay quietly in gaol.

"One wonders whether our esteemed officers in the Scotland Yard are genuinely obtuse or merely feigning it, if so, they are doing an awfully good job. My imprisonment was like a rather brief stay in a cheap and horribly furnished hotel." She announced, with the charming arrogance of a woman who had gotten away with it far too many times.

"Here to bring trouble and treachery, Miss Adler?" He enquired.

"Did you miss me?" She asked coyly, looking up at him through her lashes.

"Only the challenges you bring me," he replied without missing a beat. He could see that she had something interesting to tell. He felt the familiar rush of andrenaline, which accompanied an unsolved case.

"You can always rely on me on that account," she sat down and helped herself to a glass of wine.

~**~**~

Author's Note: DUN DUN DUN. The plot thickens. Do keep the reviews coming, dahlings, and feel free to criticise and offer suggestions. The mutant plot bunnies demand to be fed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **WARNING. This chapter contains non-graphic gay sex. If it disturbs you, cover your eyes and hit the little 'x' on the corner of the browser.

~**~**~

Chapter Four

Holmes was absently putting cubes of sugar into their tea, he was listening intently to Irene Adler.

"During my imprisonment, a man was killed in prison -- Viscount Falmouth's son."

"He does have quite the reputation," Holmes remarked.

"Well, yes." Irene sipped the tea and grimanced, "he was never the quite the model citizen. Despite the obvious explanation that someone out there might be carrying a grudge, it is more complicated than that." She stared at the tea leaves at the bottom of the porcelian cup.

"Someone was paid to do it, Holmes."

He raised an eyebrow, "and how did you come to possess this piece of information?"

"The man who killed him, a fellow inmate of his, disguised the crime as a regular prison brawl. But it was planned," Irene looked at him with conviction, "One of the guards saw a mysterious cloaked man pay him."

"Viscount Falmouth's son an impressionable youth. He was, at one point of time, associated with Blackwood," mused Holmes. "Quite publicly too. He openly endorsed Blackwood, the decision had stirred up a lot of controversy."

"I believe you should investigate further," Irene advised, "I could help you, now that Mr. Watson is gone."

Holmes smiled bitterly, "of course."

~**~**~

The steamer had set sail for Venice almost immediately after wedding, they were in the midst of their honeymoon.

"The Lido," Watson told the gondolier.

"Si, signore," the Italian replied as Watson and Mary got on to the waiting gondola, Mary leaned on him, exhausted from all the sight-seeing they have done. It was fairly warm in here, unlike the cold drabness that seem to plague London so very often, she closed her eyes in contentment and enjoyed the slight swaying motions of the boat as the oar lapped steadily, propelling it onwards.

The Lido was a seaside resort, they waved the gondolier goodbye and entered through the garden terrance. Their rooms was on the floor above, it had an excellent view of the sea.

"I should like to live in such a place, John, the people here seem so carefree," Mary contemplated, throwing the curtains open and allowing sunlight to flood the room. She peered at the men and women on the beach.

"Let us not coop ourselves in the room," Watson suggested, pulling her along.

"I am not getting into one of those bathing machines, you know bathing in the sea terrifies me." She laughed, a joyous, carefree sound.

The beach was filled with locals speaking boisterously in Italian. Mary wanted to walk along the shoreline and pick up seashells. She was careful to avoid the foamy waves. Watson sat down on one of the chairs and savoured the gentle breeze against his face, it eased his anxiety a little.

He was entertained by the beach tableaux, people sat on the chairs playing animatedly or reclining insouciantly, laughing and chatting. Vendors selling pastries and fruits were spreading out their wares in simple, make-shift stalls.

A man took a seat beside him.

"Good morning, signore."

"You speak english?" Watson was pleasantly surprised.

"Not very well, I am afraid." He replied, "I studied at England."

"Forgive me, I forget my manners," Watson apologised, "I'm Watson, John Watson." He extended his hand to him, the stranger shook it firmly. "Antonio, pleased to meet you."

Watson noticed that he had nice hands, they were a pianist's hands, long-fingered and nimble, elegantly tapered at the tips. In between the fingers was a lit cigar, the smoke infurled and dissipated into the crisp morning air.

"What brings you to Venice?"

"It's a h...vacation," he corrected himself.

A couple were openly showing affection for each other in front of them, Watson averted his eyes politely. Antonio chuckled.

"The English and their stiff upper lips," he jibed, brown eyes alight with amusement.

"I do think there is a need to impose spiritual and moral discipline on oneself, to abstain from sensual pleasures which merely serves to distract."

"Do they distract you?" Antonio smiled, charming and languid, as if knowing something he was not privy to.

"I have managed to resist them," Watson replied a little too quickly.

"Of course, silly of me to wonder," he told him, "I have to go now. The apartment across the street from the back entrance of the Lido, should you need me."

Antonio looked back at him, eyes twinkling and profile too angular to be classically handsome. Watson felt as if a rug had just been tugged out from beneath him.

Mary walked towards him, clutching a handfull of seashells.

"Who was that, darling?"

"A friend of mine, we met from school," he avoided her eyes.

"What a coincidence to meet him in Venice," she remarked, laying out her collection in front of him, "aren't they beautiful? Pity they are broken." Watson glanced at the fragments glinting in the sun.

"Yes, pity."

They went back to the resort and stayed in their rooms afterwards. Watson tried not to think of Holmes, or Antonio, or his offer.

~**~**~

The apartment was small but well-organized, books were placed neatly on the shelves and the place smelt clean though faintly musty. His heart was hammering and he was short of breath, he tried to get hold of himself. He knew he looked ridiculous, swaying slightly and reeking of liquor. He had not drunk this much alcohol in a very long time.

Antonio just stood there, stubbing his cigar calmly without a hint of surprise on his face. At that moment, Watson hated him, hated the fact that he was composed while he was falling apart at the seams, hated his brown eyes and the sympathy they held.

He moved closer and made a grabbing motion with his hands, pulling Antonio towards him and brought his lips crashing down on his. Their teeth clinked in sloppy desperation and Antonio's mouth tasted of tobacco and despair.

Much as he would like to blame it on the intoxicating effects of the alcohol he consumed, Watson was acutely aware of his actions and that he was as lucid as ever. The implications hit him like a physical blow to his gut.

"Don't look at me, please." He muttered against Antonio's cheek as they fell onto the couch.

They went at it in silence, apart from the occasional grunt and Watson's strangled sob. Both of them came with someone else's names on their lips.

~**~**~

**Author's Note:** Glad to get that out of my system, sexytiemz is not my forte at all. I fail at it, but I hope it wasn't that bad. XD Please review.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Sorry for the late update. School has started and my life is now a shit storm of tests and assignments and tutorials.

~**~**~

Chapter Five

He had left the apartment hastily after the act, like a thief or an intruder or some sort. He had neglected to clean himself up, and his own putridness sickened him. It disgusted him, his complicity in what was no doubt a crime in his own country, how simple it was to yield to his own filthy desires, to a complete stranger. Above all, what repulsed him the most was the betrayal of his senses -- this feeling of liberation and euphoria he could not quite quell.

It made him dizzy and he was getting more and more disoriented, for the alleys, buildings and canals in Venice was too much alike and everywhere he went he had the most terrible sense of deja vu. He had the sudden impression that he had started upon a path of perilous decadence, a wretched path that was bound to lead him astray but from which he cannot escape.

Before long he had arrived at outside of his room in the Lido, the porter glanced at him suspiciously but did not say anything.

He took a bath and hoped that the sound of running water will not wake Mary, who had aready fallen asleep, book in hand. No doubt waiting for him. The bed creaked precariously when he sat on it, hair still wet from the bath. Watson carefully planted a kiss on her cheek and lay down slowly beside her, like the way he did every single night since they got married.

"Where have you been?" Mary spoke in a sleep-clogged voice, having just awoken.

"Went to visit a friend," he answered.

Mary reached out a hand and drowsily ran her hand through his hair. "You're balding," she giggled fondly. He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist, it smelt faintly of rosewater and orange blossoms, clean and fresh. Holding her in his arms, he buried his nose in her hollow of her collarbone, searching for that elusive scent. The remnants of the passion he had felt just a while ago stirred.

He felt phantom stubble beneath his lips, an eagle-like arched nose and dark eyes looking straight at him. They were twinkling and his cheeks were flushed like the way he would be when he had a particularly challenging case... "Oh John," Mary shuddered beneath him, the breathly, feminine voice jolted him out of his reverie. He flinched involuntarily.

"What's wrong?" She asked, puzzled over the sudden change in his demeanor.

It was wrong, and he was despicable to think of Holmes while in bed with his wife. But he missed him so much that it felt as if his heart was a vortex and he was slowly but surely collapsing upon himself. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Watson sobbed. Something in him broke and his emotions, usually kept fastidiously under wraps, burst forth like water from a dam.

"What is there to be sorry for? You are giving me everything I could ever want."

"I --" Watson choked. He knew that at this point of time, he was destroying everything she ever wanted.

~**~**~

A homeless man with a particularly large beard stumbled along down the street, he was holding a bottle in one hand and a tin can in another. There were barely any coins in the can. Looks of disdain were thrown at him from fellow pedestrains.

"A penny, sir?" He asked the random passer-by, shaking the can. The coins made a tinkling sound against the inside of it.

"Piss off."

The man walked along the road and looked around for watchful eyes, he then discreetly disappeared behind the doors of 221b Baker Street.

Irene was standing near the fireplace, smoking a cigarette. Her hand quivered slightly, dropping smothering ashes on the hearth-rug. Holmes detached the authentic-looking beard carefully and placed the tin can on the mantle.

"You are frightened," Holmes concluded without even looking at her.

Irene averted her eyes and stubbed the cigarette in the crystal ash-tray. She knows that it was futile hiding the fact from the legendary detective. "I could not help but think it could have been me," she stated, "Now that I'm no longer on good terms with Moriarty, he could have simply ordered someone to kill me and I would not be able to do a single thing."

Irene was not easily frightened, but she knows that she would have to be a fool not to be.

"You are a strong woman, Miss Adler, also one in possession of quick wits."

She smiled and gradually regained her usual playful demeanor. "You would know, Holmes, you would."

He gritted his teeth and went back to the situation at hand. "I went under the diguise of a beggar to scout for information regarding the Viscount's son and his murder. The streets of London can be a great place to gather rumours with various degrees of truthiness, especially since he, while alive, had lingered often in various establishments in the shadier parts of the city."

Irene took out a piece of paper, intending to record Holmes' findings.

"He was apparently notorious for being closely aquainted with Blackwood. At one point of time, he was so dedicated to his cause that he was secretly selling his father's properties to fund the cult's activities. Upon discovering his son's disloyalty, the Viscount had broken ties with him and sent him to jail."

"That seems highly probable," Irene commented.

"We would need to investigate the Viscount."

"Do you think his own father ordered the murder?"

"So far, we do not have enough evidence to arrive to any sort of conclusion. However, we should not eliminate such a possibility, especially at such an early stage of our investigations."

~**~**~

Author's Note: A big thank you to everyone who is still reading this. Do be patient for the next installment *cough* school *cough*, and REVIEW!!! Criticisms are welcome. In fact, DO YOUR WORST. Haha.


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